Will God tell us when we get to Heaven?
Here is who killed Kennedy, and here is what really happened at Candles in that late afternoon in August.
These things Nina found herself wondering.
Until finally Mildred said:
“We was about to walk out. And the phone rang.”
“Aha!” said Margot.
‘Aha’ mused Nina.
“I picked it up.”
“And then you put it to your ear and then you put it closer to your ear and then you said hello and then you waited a second and then…”
I’m going crazy, she thought.
“And who was it,” asked Margot, “who was calling?”
“That man from Chicago.”
“What man?”
“The man who does the bookings.”
“Ah! Amidon Phillips!”
“That’s him! He said he’d been trying to contact you but––”
“Go on, Mildred. What did he want?”
“He was real excited. Said he had great news. Great for The Candles. Lot of money involved.”
“Okay, and this is bad why?”
“He said we needed to get in touch with you quick because they was coming day after tomorrow. Only that’s tomorrow now, because the rest of that night and all day today we’ve been trying to call you but––”
“All right, so what is this thing that was supposed to be great for Candles?”
“They booked a group in, Ms. Gavin.”
“A group?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“But you were supposed to have a few days free. This was everybody’s vacation!”
“I know, Ma’am. We was all expecting it. Was ready to go into town. But the phone rang and––”
“All right, all right. He booked a last minute group in. I’m sorry about that, Mildred. I wish I could have talked to him and tried to talk him out of it. But it’s a group and they’ll pay money and we’ll have bonuses to pay all of you. Surely it can’t be so bad.”
“It’s not that, Ms. Gavin. You know we don’t mind workin.’ Even at short notice. We never let you down, not that I can recall. You need a meal fixed, we come out and fix it. Something breaks, we fix it.”
“I know, you’ve all been wonderful, and Candles is lucky to have you. So I don’t see why this particular group should––”
“You told us they wouldn’t never come again. Never. Not after that last bunch in June.”
“But I don’t––”
Margot stopped in mid-sentence, as though her mouth had been clogged.
“Oh God,” she whispered. “Mid-June. You don’t mean––”
The woman across the table from her nodded, the machinery which was her physical being screeching and moaning softly as though in need of oil.
“Yes, Ma’am. It’s writers.”
“Oh, no. Oh, no.”
“You told us it would never happen again, Ms. Gavin.”
“But, I––Amidon––how could he––”
“A lot of us wanted to quit after that last bunch. We could take the painters and the actors and the singers and the fiddle players and all those others out of Chicago and New York City. They wasn’t so bad. They made funeral music all the time and got paint on the curtains and tried to make little jokes that nobody could understand––but not everybody has a proper upbringing, and parents to teach them about the real world. So we could understand them and not let ‘em worry us too much.”
“I know.”
“But them writers––”
“Mildred, I––”
At this moment, a young and haggard-looking once-blonde, now dirty straw-blond girl stuck her head in the kitchen door and, having apparently overheard part of the conversation, half shouted:
“We’re still trying to get those scrambled eggs out of the carpets!”
A teen-aged boy stuck his head over her shoulder:
“The dog ain’t really right yet! I don’t know what they did to Borg!”
Mildred attempted to shoo the two away:
“Go on about packing up, you two.”
“Tell her we’re through! Tell her we won’t––”
“I’m telling her! I’m telling her!”
The kitchen door closed.
Mildred continued, quietly, as though reciting a dirge:
“Them people—you see them just walking along, not talking with each other like real people would but—seeing things in the air, making little waving motions, muttering to themselves––”
“Well, Mildred, they’re writing things, they’re making things up.”
“What are they seeing, Ms. Gavin? Who they talking to?”
“No one knows that except for other writers, Mildred. And, of course, they aren’t really mentally stable people to begin with––”
“Yes, Ms. Gavin.”
“So it’s best to leave them alone.”
“Then why they coming here? Why they all want to get together?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know, Mildred.”
“Why can’t they leave folks alone?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“I called the police, you know.”
“The police?”
“Yes, Ma’am. Soon as I knew they was coming. Officer Thompson—you remember James Thompson—he said, after last time, that we ought to never have a bunch like that out here again, and to let him know as soon as possible if one was coming.”
“So what did he say?”
“Oh, he was real mad. He said to keep them out of town.”
“Can he send any people out here to Candles?”
“Oh, no, Ms. Gavin. He said we was on our own. He said two of his people from last time still wasn’t the same. And that woman officer is teaching school now.”
“I’m so sorry about what happened to her.”
“And Ben—Ben still can’t figure any of it out. How they got that big wagon into the upstairs bathroom––”
“Well, it was hot and––”
“You know the County Board of Health says we still can’t use that room down in the basement.”
“You haven’t told them, have you?”
“Oh, no, Ma’am!”
“Thank God!”
Nina saw a shape in the doorway.
It was Ben, the scarecrow, gesturing for Margot.
“Excuse me, Mildred. I have to talk to Ben.”
“You do what you have do, Ms. Gavin.”
Margot rose and walked toward the door, then through it and out onto the porch.
Nina followed, not wanting to be left alone with Mildred, and thus in danger of hearing again that all of them had attempted to contact Margot, but had been unable to.
She was, she realized, probably never again going to forget those lines.
Once on the porch she saw Ben move closer to Margot and whispered:
“They coming again, aren’t they?”
“Yes, it appears so.”
“All right then. I done the best I could for you, Ma’am. You know there wasn’t much time. We only found out about this yesterday. But I done the best I could for you.”
“In what way? What are you talking about?”
“I used all my contacts. Two guys I know in Pottersville, and one in Crossland. But in only a day and a half––”
“I still don’t understand––”
“About thirty pounds, I was able to round up and have shipped out here.”
“Thirty pounds?”
“Pot, Ms. Gavin. Weed. We put it all in that big trunk up in the attic. The one with the Rebel flag painted on it.”
“There’s thirty pounds of marijuana in the attic?”
“All I could get my hands on, given the short notice. It might get you through tomorrow night, but after that––I don’t know what you’re going to do.”
“I’d forgotten––”
“Yes, Ma’am. Last time we had sixty on hand but when that ra
n out––well, that was when they started going after the dog.”
“I remember now.”
“He was a good dog, too. Just kind of lumbers around now.”
“I know. I know.”
“Well, anyway. I done the best I could. We all gotta go now. They not supposed to show up until tomorrow but––well, ain’t none of us want to be here if they arrive early. Not be here after sundown. Not with that bunch.”
And it was true. The sun was a sliver of peach above a hazy, wood-shrouded horizon. The five workers who were still within the grounds of Candles could not seem to take their eyes off it. Every action, every bit of packing, of locking, of hiding away, of whispering encouragement and support—seemed to be timed so as to fill the two cars and leave before those last rays of sun were exhausted.
Until finally they were in the cars, Ben driving one, Mildred the other.
It was she who leaned out the window and shouted above the chugging motor:
“I’m sorry to leave you here like this, Ms. Gavin. But I have children. We all, all of us, are part of families.”
“I know. I know.”
“I want you to have this though––”
She was leaning out still farther, and offering something silver and shining to Margot.
Finally, Nina could see that it was a cross.
Margot took it, squeezed it, and put in into her purse.
“God be with you. God be with both of you.”
And then the cars drove away.
And then the sun set.
And then the two of them were alone.
Waiting for writers.
“Well,” said Nina after a time, “what do we do now?”
Margot thought for a time, then rose.
“Come on.”
“Where to?”
“We talk to Amidon. And find out what’s really going on.”
“How do we do that, Margot?”
“We Skype with him.”
“You can barely remember to keep your cell phone powered. Do you really knowhow to Skype?”
“Yes. Had to in the museum job. And now, even out here, both Amidon and Goldmann working together have put together an impressive display of technology in the music room. Come on. You’ll see.”
Nina followed, up one flight of stairs, around a corner, down a corridor, and then another.
Finally, Margot opened a door.
And the old Candles music room smiled back at them.
“This is one of my favorite rooms. Nina. It always has been, even from the first time I came here with Goldmann.”
Margot switched on a standing lamp that was just inside the doorway.
Nina could see the yellow glow emanating from inside before she could see the room itself.
“Oh my!”
“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?”
And it was.
The first thing to catch one’s eye was the harp, golden, shaped like angels’ wings, standing exactly in the center of the room, forming the sun around which various planets—grand piano, smaller spinet piano, violins mounted on walls, pictures of opera houses and composers—had been frozen in their rotation and now stood ready for some final concert which would probably never come.
The two women entered and padded like cats, their shoes scuffing on a worn hardwood floor, their hands not daring to touch the instruments, their mouths turned respectfully away, for fear of careless breaths clouding enamel and gold finishes.
“Our music room.”
“It’s incredible.”
“Yes. Yes, it is. But here is the most wonderful part. Over here, on this stand. Come, come this way!”
Nina followed, and found herself led to what easily could have been the most striking exhibit in this hall of dead sounds: a phonograph, its great curved bell yawning out over the rest of the room like some giant sea shell out of which, if one leaned close enough, thought Nina, one might hear the roar of breakers, the comings and goings of the tide. It sat regally on a square oaken box, which, like a desk upended, seemed to have been made specifically to support it.
“We can Skype over here; this is where we keep all the computers and modern things. But I insisted on the music room looking as it had. Okay, here we go.”
Margot proved adept at modern technology, and within a minute the image of a smiling, business-suited Amidon Phillips was before them.
“Margot! You’re a hard woman to track down!”
“Please let’s not talk about that, Amidon. What the hell is going on?”
An elfin face on the screen smiled evilly, cirrus wisps of white hair raising slightly about the only slightly but still definitely Satanic and pointed ears:
“A coup, Margot! A wonderful coup!”
“But my vacation! My few free days!”
“Oh, it will be a vacation of sorts, I can promise you that!”
“I’ve brought my friend Nina up from Bay St. Lucy!”
“Yes, I’ve heard of her! The political revolutionary!”
“I promised her some days of rest! And now––”
“Now they will be days of discovery and pure fun, I promise you! Not to mention quite lucrative days for The Candles!”
“All right all right, would you just tell me what’s going on?”
“Of course, of course. The bottom line of it is that one of my contacts called me several nights ago and alerted me to a possible business deal. And a very exciting one!”
“Go on.”
“He had learned that a very particular group of artists had been booked into the Sheraton Inn Rosemont near O’Hare Airport, but that the leaders of the group, having done some advance scouting, were dissatisfied and might be persuaded to move elsewhere. Or be rerouted elsewhere, as it were. There was a bit of time before the convention actually began. So as it happened, I was able to contact these particular leaders and paint an enthralling picture of Candles. They seemed entranced. The long and short of it is that I persuaded them to change their venue and come to us.”
“At the last minute? How is that possible?”
“It’s possible because I offered to pay their airfare from Chicago down to Vicksburg, and arrange for a private jet to take them to Meridian Airport fifteen miles north of Abbeyport.”
“Doesn’t that cost a fortune?”
“It has cost something, yes, but our consortium can afford it, given the upside of the entire venture.”
“That upside being?”
The smile eviled a bit more, eyes glinting brighter as they narrowed:
“National publicity, my dear Margot. And possibly a major contract with one of the major television studios based in Los Angeles.”
“My God.”
“Precisely my reaction upon first visualizing the potential.”
“But, Amidon, don’t you realize what’s happened down here?”
A pause, a slight frown.
“What are you talking about, dear Lady?”
“The whole staff has quit! They’ve just driven off thirty minutes ago!”
“But why, for heaven’s name?”
“Surely you must know that!”
“I have no earthly idea what you must be talking about!”
“Writers! The staff seems to think that you’re sending writers to Candles!”
“And so we are!”
“But you know what happened last time! We’re still dealing with the lawsuits. The police have refused to come out and provide protection for the physical plant, and they’re planning to put up roadblocks so that none of the writers can get within five miles of the town itself. My God, Amidon, don’t you realize? We’re only four miles up the road from an elementary school. Children, Amidon!”
But the face on the screen only broke into a broad and strangely beneficent—for an agent of evil—smile.
“No no no no, you’ve got it all wrong!”
“How do I have it wrong?”
“Margot, those people who came in June were real writers––pornogr
aphic book writers, hard-bitten detective novelists, people who envisaged themselves Hemingways and Faulkners and Tennessee Williamses and—well, that sort. We knew what to expect from such reprobates, and we certainly got it. It was our fault entirely.”
“No, it was your fault entirely.”
“All right, blame accepted. But this! This will be entirely different!”
“How can it be different?”
“Because these people, these thirty people who are coming––”
“There are thirty of them? You’re mad!”
“But they’re NOT REAL WRITERS, Margot!”
“They’re not––well, if they’re not real writers, then what are they?”
“They’re COZY WRITERS!”
Margot paused.
“What?”
“They’re COZY WRITERS!”
Margot paused again.
Then:
“What is that?”
“They write cozy mysteries!”
“All right, that would make sense. But now you need to tell me: what the hell are cozy mysteries?”
Nina could not stop herself from interrupting:
“Okay, wait a minute, Margot. I think I know.”
Amidon Phillips faced beamed out at them from the SKYPE screen:
“Oh, hello, Ms. Bannister!”
“Hello to you.”
“Welcome to The Candles!”
“Thank you!”
“Will you be letting me have sex anytime soon?”
“Depends on the election.”
“Well, I’m certainly doing my best to get as many women on the ballot as possible!”
“Then you might have some hope.”
“Oh, I do hope so! Now, if you’ll explain to dear Margot what cozy mysteries are––”
“I’ll try. Margot, I think they’re like Miss Marple.”
“Agatha Christie?”
“Exactly.”
“Thirty Agatha Christies are coming out here? I thought they all lived in England.”
Nina shook her head:
“They used to all live in England. But in the last few years there’s been a huge wave of cozy books that have gotten popular here in the United States. The heroine of the novel is usually an elderly retired lady, maybe an ex- librarian. She lives in a quaint little town, preferably New England. A murder happens and she solves it, because she’s always just a little smarter than the local police, who are well-meaning and good-hearted, but stupid.”
“Why are these books popular?”
Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) Page 4
